A Christmas Wedding
by MizJoely
Summary: "Marry me." He blurted it out without thought, without even realizing that was what he'd wanted to say to her, and certainly without taking into account just how ridiculous it was to propose to someone whilst babysitting your extremely precocious godchild.
1. Blurting It Out

_A/N: Written for Quarto for the Sherlolly Secret Santa and incredibly late and not quite finished but it will be soon. I hope you enjoy this canon divergent fic!_

* * *

"Lock. Lock. LOCK! Lock-Lock-Lock-Lock-Lock!" Rosie chanted as Sherlock remained deep within his mind palace.

Undeterred by the failure of her verbal attempt at getting her godfather's attention, Rosie resorted to more physical means: she climbed up onto his lap, smooshed his cheeks together with her hands and dropped a moist, noisy smack of a kiss on his nose.

"Hi Unca Lock!" she chirped when he blinked and smiled, once again aware of the world outside his own head. "Aunt Mowwy say dinner now!"

He swooped her into his arms and rolled them off the sofa and onto the floor and from there, amongst her shrieks of laughter, bounced to his feet still holding the toddler close. "Well then, Rose-of-the-world," he announced once he'd gotten them both vertical, "we shouldn't make Aunt Mowwy wait another second longer!"

"Not unless you want your goose cooked as well as the one I'm putting on the table now!" 'Aunt Mowwy' warbled from the kitchen.

Sherlock smiled at her as he took Rosie over to the sink so they could wash their hands while Molly put the finishing touches on their special Godparents Only dinner, also known as 'John and Mary's Anniversary Dinner and Night To Themselves" that said godparents had arranged for them. With Rosie's new sibling only four months from arriving to add to disrupted nights, hurried meals and overstuffed schedules, Sherlock had no trouble agreeing to babysitting duty...even if it was, technically, his and Molly's six month anniversary as well.

Six months since Sherrinford. Six months since a forced pair of 'I love you's' had resulted, somehow, in a lifelong commitment and the fervent conversion of cynical, skeptical, hard-hearted Sherlock Holmes into a true believer in the transformative power of love.

However, since it had been the introduction of first John, then Mary, and now Rosie into his life that had allowed him to realize just how important love really was, he supposed he had no reason to complain.

No, he thought as he gazed over at Molly's beautiful dinner table - and her even more beautiful self - he had nothing to complain about at all.

"Unca Lock! Water!" Rosie commanded, disrupting this thoughts again. Obediently he turned off the water, dried her tiny hands (even tinier next to his own monster digits) and settled her onto her booster seat.

Instead of sitting around her elegant formal dining table, they were seated at the cosy little breakfast nook, a choice Sherlock wholeheartedly approved. If John and Mary were there, then of course the bigger table would have been necessary. But it was nice, just the three of them, him and Rosie and...

"You're deep into your own head tonight," Molly teased as she took her seat opposite his. "Can't be a case since you've been complaining about the laziness of the criminal element at the holidays. Is it the lack of cases that has you so occupied, or something else?"

"Marry me."

He blurted it out without thought, without even realizing that was what he'd wanted to say to her, and certainly without taking into account just how ridiculous it was to propose to someone whilst babysitting your extremely precocious godchild.

"Mawwy him!" Rosie crowed, clapping her chubby little hands with delight, blue eyes wide and her happy smile showing her dimples to perfection. "Be mawwied to Unca Lock, Aunt Mowwy! Mummy and Daddy wike being mawwied, so wiw you! Pwomise!"

Molly, who had flushed a bright pink, bit her lip and slowly lowered her forkful of goose and garlic-mashed potatoes to stare at him. "Really? Marry you? It's only been six months, are you sure?"

He nodded, feeling a sort of peace flooding over him at the thought of having this domestic side of his life moving into a more central and important position. Of having what John and Mary had eventually found, after all the false steps both partners had made - from Mary shooting him and lying about her past, to John nearly breaking his wedding vows with (although he hadn't known it at the time) Sherlock's own forgotten (and truly psychopathic) sister. Mary's near death at the hands (well, gun) of Vivian Norbury had been one of the worst times in all their lives; the thought of Rosie growing up without her mother had frightened Sherlock more than he'd have believed possible.

But Mary had lived, although with a long, slow, painful recovery that unfortunately included the discovery that her husband wasn't quite as perfect as she'd built him up to be in her own mind. Fortunately for them all they'd not only survived these pitfalls, they'd somehow managed to thrive. To grow beyond the missteps and trust issues and become the better people Sherlock had always believed them to be.

Yes, he wanted that for himself. "Not the missteps and the trust issues," he said aloud, oblivious to the fact that the lead-up to that statement had been entirely inside his own mind. "But yes, I want to marry you. The question is, are you willing to put up with me for the rest of your life, Molly Hooper?"

Her wide, brilliant smile, the glimmer of tears on her eyelashes, and the way she reached out to take both of his hands in hers, was all the answer he needed.

Rosamund Mary Watson, it would seem, had other ideas. "You gotta say yes Aunt Mowwy," she instructed her godmother.

With a small laugh, Molly squeezed Sherlock's hands. "Yes," said, and the moment was made even more perfect.


	2. Choosing Colors and Coughing Toddlers

_A/N: Only 1 or 2 chapters left. Thanks for your lovely reviews, hope you enjoy this chapter as the wedding preparations commence (Or, Molly shops and Sherlock panics)_

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"Mary, what do you think of this color?"

Mrs. Watson studied the swatch of silky, forest green fabric thoughtfully. "I think it's perfect for a December wedding...for the tablecloths," she said with a twinkle in her eyes. "But for the bride to be, how about something a little more...dramatic?" And she pointed at the bright red bolt of fabric Molly had been considering for the bows on the flower arrangements.

"Um, I dunno," Molly replied somewhat doubtfully. "Don't you think a red wedding gown might be a bit too..._Game of Thrones_?"

"Well, considering the number of enemies your husband-to-be has managed to accumulate during his career as 'World's Only Consulting Detective'...no. Absolutely not. He's Mr. Drama Queen and frankly the bride needs to outshine the groom at a wedding, not blend in with the wallpaper." She held up the bolt and waggled it in front of Molly. "Besides, red really is your color. Remember that gorgeous dress you wore for Rosie's christening?"

Molly nibbled on the corner of her lower lip, then allowed Mary to drape the fabric over her shoulder and look at herself in her phone's mirror app. "Well, I guess," she started, and that was enough for Mary "Whirlwind" Watson.

"Right," she said happily, returning the bolt to the shelf. "Let's finish up with the linens and start searching out vintage red dresses online!"

Laughing, Molly allowed herself to be tugged along, grateful yet again that Mary was still a part of all their lives.

And equally grateful that Rosie was at 221B Baker Street with her Daddy and 'Unca Lock' to keep her entertained for the afternoon.

**oOo**

"No, Sherlock, absolutely not. We are not taking my two-year-old daughter to a crime scene!"

"Why not? The place will be crawling with police - hardly the most dangerous place to take a toddler!" Sherlock protested. "Besides, the crime's already been committed!"

"Exactly my point!" John exclaimed in exasperation. "You want to take Rosie to a place where a crime's been committed - and not just any crime, but a triple homicide! In a neighborhood known for its high crime rates! At half-five in the evening!" He drew in a breath and let out his most devastating argument against this lunacy. "In the rain!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. "Rain, John?" he scoffed. "Since when has a little rain ever bothered-"

He fell silent as a tiny cough interrupted them, coming from the baby monitor in the upstairs room that had once housed Rosie's irate father and was now where she napped and occasionally slept over at times like this - when Mum was busy helping Aunt Molly plan the parts of the wedding that Sherlock had grudgingly ceded to her control. The cough repeated itself, followed by Rosie's hoarse, somewhat forlorn voice calling for Dada.

Giving Sherlock a pointed glared, John swept out of the flat and up the stairs, calling reassuringly to his daughter. "Coming, sweet pea! Daddy's coming!"

He began pacing, fingers clutching at his hair. Without the Watsons, the entire wedding would be ruined! What had he been thinking, to propose to Molly and then push for a Christmas wedding? Six months was nowhere near enough time, he should have said next Christmas, not this Christmas! What had possessed Molly to agree with him? She was supposed to be the sensible one, for god's sake! "We'll have to postpone it," he muttered, still pacing furiously. Yes, that was the answer. Just put it off until Rosie was fully recovered from whatever illness she'd been exposed to in the germ-pit of a nursery she spent her days in.

He paused in his pacing. What if it was the flu? There were multiple strains going 'round this time of year; was she too young to be vaccinated? Or was it too late for that?

Feverishly typing away on his phone, he was researching various forms of influenza and the statistics on young children in the UK when John walked back into the room, _sans _Rosie. "Got her back to sleep," the elder Watson announced. "Just needed a little drink of wa-"

"Did you know there are potentially 144 different subtypes of influenza A, John?" Sherlock practically bellowed, showing his phone directly in front of John's face. "144 different subtypes! What the hell is wrong with our medical system, why hasn't anyone found a bloody cure for this yet?" He yanked the phone away just as John was reaching for it and returned to rapidly typing.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you going on about?" John tried to ask, but found himself ignored in favor of his friend holding the phone to his ear whilst rapidly pacing about the sitting room.

"Hello, Mary? Are you aware that Rosamund is sick? Why haven't you and John been taking better care of her? You're both medical professionals, for God's sa...what's that? She was coughing." He paused, John watching with a mixture of amusement and alarm. "Yes, John said she just needed a drink of water but I...well no, of course I don't have a medical degree I've been keeping mum about," he said sarcastically, clearly repeating Mary's words back to her. "But it's winter, and the wedding is...Mary? Are you listen-"

He fell silent, then took a deep, shuddering breath and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Hi, yes, Molly. No, nothing's wrong, why should anything be wrong? I was just letting Mary know that Rosie...no, this isn't anything like that time I thought she contracted the Ebola virus! She coughed, I heard her…wait, what was that? Dress? What color"

He remained silent for quite a long while, long enough that John went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, downed it, and returned the glass to the sink before he heard Sherlock speak again. "Vintage, you say? What's the name of the website?" A moment of intent listening later, he said, "Got it. I'll take a look. Strapless or...yes, yes, I'll see for myself. Yes, I'll let you and Mary get back to your tea break so you can finish up your fabric hunt." A final pause, followed by a somewhat sheepish, "Yes, Molly, of course. I, I love you too."

That last was spoken quite lowly, and John pretended to be suddenly absorbed in his own reflection in the mirror over the fireplace mantel. Sherlock was still rather shy of expressing his feelings for Molly in front of others, mainly because of how publicly he'd been forced to reveal said feelings the first time, in front of not only John and Mycroft, but his psychotic sister Eurus as well.

At least she hadn't managed to destroy Sherlock and Molly's friendship, or the 'something more' it had become before finally ending up here, with the pair of them getting married on Christmas Day. "So, she's found her dress, has she?" John asked as Sherlock continued staring at his phone.

He looked up. "Hm? Yes, at least the color and style, she just has to check to see if they do alterations, which even if they don't I know a tailor who might do in a pinch, owes me a favor...so, no crime scene, then?" he asked, throwing John off-balance for a brief moment.

"No," he said, quite firmly, "No crime scene. You'll just have to go without us."

"Fine," Sherlock said with a scowl, striding across the room in order to whirl his Belstaff over his shoulders, shrugging into the sleeves and snapping his scarf around his neck. "But don't blame me if that cough turns out to be the one flu strain they're not offering jabs for this year!"

With that last, somewhat nonsensical shot, he bolted through the door, already holding up his mobile in order to bark demands at Lestrade.

John shook his head and gazed heavenward. If they survived this wedding, it would be a bloody miracle.

Upstairs, as if to punctuate his exasperation, Rosie coughed again.


	3. Frantic Preps, Surprise Announcements

_A/N: Only 2 chapters left. Thanks for your lovely reviews! Have another heaping handful of Sherlock Panicking and, as the chapter title indicates, A Surprise Announcement is Made_

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Frantic Preparations and Surprise Announcements

If John thought Sherlock was acting like a panicky groomzilla a month before the wedding, that was nothing compared to how frenzied his best mate became as the days ticked down.

Like today, for instance.

"Sherlock, why are we out here, again?" John winced as another branch just missed slapping him in the face from where a certain consulting detective was pushing through the undergrowth. Good thing he'd left Rosie, finally recovered from her cold, safely with Mrs. Hudson for the day.

"Mistletoe, John, mistletoe!" he called back. "I promised it as Molly's 'something new' to include in her bouquet. My father swears there's some out here."

John rolled his eyes but hurried after him. Mistletoe for something new, Mary's red shoes for something borrowed - amazing how exactly they matched the vintage tea-length red dress she and Molly had found for the wedding - so all that was left to tick off the list was 'old' and 'blue'. With any luck, those two items wouldn't involve more treks through the Old Growth forest behind Sherlock's family home - or any other cold, wet, mid-winter locations.

"Got it!" Sherlock's triumphant cry sent John hurrying to join him.

And then cursing him under his breath as he steadied himself against the tree-trunk, hands cupped together so Sherlock could scramble up to the lowest branches in order to reach the damned parasite plant, which was roughly ten feet above said lowest branches.

"A little higher, John, I can't quite reach it," Sherlock called down to him.

With a grunt, John raised his hands, making a concerted effort before actively shoving Sherlock up enough for him to scramble onto the branch. Which he did without so much as a thank-you.

John sighed. Loudly. The things you did for your friends…

oOo

"Mrs. Hudson, what exactly is...this?" Sherlock raised his hand. Dangling from one finger was a blue satin garter.

"It's a blue satin garter, dear," she replied. Before he could make a scathing comment about stating the obvious, she added, "For Molly, of course, to wear under her gown. Blue and old all in one. I wore it with the most darling white mini-dress, back in my dancing days," she reminisced with a fond smile, while Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and winced.

"Who's wearing a minidress, then?" John asked as he joined Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson's flat. Then he realized who he was asking, and tried very hard to change the subject, to no avail. At least Rosie, who was seated on Mrs. Hudson's lap and covered in biscuit crumbs, was too young to understand any salacious nuances, had any been uttered.

"It'll fit, I've had the elastic replaced," his former landlady was reassuring Sherlock, who looked like he neither needed nor wanted reassuring. There was nothing like having a woman you thought of as a second mother oversharing about her colorful past.

At least, John mused as a somewhat red-faced Sherlock took the tissue wrapped garter and stuffed it into his coat pocket, the old-and-blue issue was safely solved without anyone having to climb any more trees.

They made their escape, Rosie safely ensconced her father's arms, without having to hear any further details of the minidress Mrs. Hudson had apparently worn along with the blue garter, and John breathed a sigh of relief as he said to Sherlock, "Well, at least that's it for the wedding drama today."

Silly, silly man.

oOo

"Molly, I love you dearly, but there is no way we're going to get Rosamund to wear that frilly monstrosity of a dress. She'll have it off her in pieces before she's half-way down the aisle. You know she hates 'poofy clothes'."

Molly's face fell. "But it's so perfect, Mary! The little roses match my dress almost as perfectly as those shoes you loaned me!"

"It is," Mary agreed in her most patient, understanding, Matron-of-Honour voice. "But luv, I can barely get Rosie into any kind of dress these days, and you saw what she did to those lovely pink tights Mrs. Hudson bought for her!"

Both women took a moment to shudder at the memory. "Those ruffles were adorable, and I honestly don't see how they could possibly have been making her bottom itchy when she tried to sit down," Molly sighed. "Especially not over the two pair of pants she insisted on wearing!"

Mary typed something into her laptop, then turned it to face Molly. "How about this?" she suggested. "A split skirt, satin, not frilly or fussy, and look! Red polka-dot netting for sleeves on the matching top**!"

Molly squinted doubtfully at the photo. "They look more like cherries than roses," she protested. "I don't want Sherlock complaining that it's too twee!"

"If he does, then you can tell Mr. Groomzilla to shove it," Mary shot back, completely unashamed of her rudeness. "He doesn't get to have everything his way! Besides," she added with a twinkle in her eye, "this way it matches that pretty cardigan of yours. You can drape it over your shoulders like a shrug for the reception!"

"Absolutely not!"

Both women looked up as Sherlock's outraged voice thundered from the doorway. "That cardigan is entirely inappropriate for the wedding! Now let me see this possibly 'too twee' outfit you're trying to foist on my goddaughter, Mrs. Watson!"

John, bringing up the rear with said goddaughter in his arms, sighed. Loudly. While Sherlock joined Molly on the sofa, Mary walked over and gave Rosie a hug and John a peck on the cheek, while at the same time plucking a twig from his hair. "Bad day, was it?" she teased.

"We got the bloody mistletoe, if that's what you mean," John grumbled back. "So what's he on about now?"

"Rosie's Flower Girl outfit," his wife replied. "Molly wanted a dress, but of course we know how someone feels about dresses right now, and-"

"Dwess? Wosie dwess?" their daughter interrupted.

Mary nodded and kissed the top of her head. "It's all right, luv, you won't have to wear a dress for Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock's wedding. We've found a pair of trou-"

To her and John's mutual alarm, Rosie's blue eyes welled with fat tears. "Wanna dwess," she declared pitifully. "Aunt Mowwy gets a pwetty dwess, I wanna dwess!"

Her parents stared at each other, then her, absolutely dumbfounded. "You, you want to wear a dress for Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock's wedding?" John asked.

Rosie nodded, the tears now dripping down her chubby little cheeks. "A pwetty dwess," she reiterated. "Unca Lock said I could! He pwomised!"

With that declaration, she squirmed in her mother's arms until Mary set her on the floor. They watched as Rosie ran over to Sherlock and wiggled her way onto his lap. "Dat dwess," she said imperiously. Sherlock turned the laptop to face her, a triumphant expression on his face, as Rosie continued to point to the very dress that Molly had already picked out.

"I sense a conspiracy," Mary said, eyebrow raised. "And possibly bribery of some sort. Or am I completely off base, 'Unca Lock'?"

Sherlock shot her his most imperious glare. "Mary Watson, if you think I would stoop to bribery on such an important matter as this, then you've got another think com-"

"Aunt Mowwy's gonna have a baby!" Rosie interrupted her godfather, earning a glare from him, which she blithely ignored, and three shocked stares from the other adults. Including Aunt Molly, who put one hesitant, disbelieving hand on her stomach and the other against her lips. "An' if I wear a pwetty dwess I gets to give the baby her name!" Rosie continued, grinning widely. "I wike Pwincess Peach."

"Yes, well, we'll discuss that once things have progressed a bit further," Sherlock told her, before turning his attention back to his speechless fiancée.

Who, it was quite clear to both John and Mary, had been entirely unaware of her 'interesting condition' until this very moment.

"Rosie, luv, time to go home now," John said, edging past his wife and over to the sofa, hoisting his daughter into his arms over her very vocal objections. "Aunt Molly and Uncle Sherlock need some alone time. We'll see them...later. Yeah, later," he assured her. "Um, we'll just see ourselves out, no need to walk us down the stairs, good night!"

Then he and Mary beat a hasty retreat, Rosie still loudly protesting her removal from Unca Lock's lap.

Once the door to 221B had been closed, Molly finally spoke. "You and Rosie think I'm pregnant?"

"Deduced it," Sherlock corrected, setting the laptop aside and reaching cautiously for her hands. Which were quite cold. Shock, of course, stupid, he should have realized Rosie wouldn't be able to keep such a tremendous secret, no matter what matter of prizes were offered in return. "Well, I did. In my defense, I thought you already know but were keeping it to yourself for some reason." He paused, feeling a bit pale as he realized what he'd just said. "Which actually makes it worse, because if you were keeping it to yourself then me telling anyone - even someone as innocent and safe, I thought, as Rosie - was a horrible breach of trust, and I don't blame you if you're rethinking the whole marrying me idea, but honestly, Molly, the statistics show that children raised in a two parent household are more…"

He fell silent, not because he'd run out of either breath or words, but because Molly lips on his made it almost impossible to continue speaking. Unexpected but welcome, that; when one had cocked things up as badly as he imagined he had, a passionate kiss was certainly preferable to any of the half-dozen far less palatable alternatives his mind offered up.

"Not that I'm complaining," he said hesitantly, once the kiss had ended and Molly was somehow now seated on his laps with her arms twined round his neck and his own encircling her waist, "but why-"

"Because I love you, you daft man," Molly declared. "And even though, yes, this was a bit of a shock and we'll have to have a discussion about sharing deductions with me first in future, I'm just...happy. Happy for us both, for the future three of us, and I could see you were starting to work yourself into a panic and none of us need that this close to the wedding."

She kissed him again and he kissed her back and was pleased to realize that the increased heart rate was due to excitement rather than - not panic, Molly was clearly overstating the case - but certainly concern. Yes, concern was what he'd been feeling. Definitely.

"We'll have that conversation," he promised. "Later." He stood up with only a small amount of effort, considering that he'd fallen and wrenched his wrist whilst procuring her the promised mistletoe now safely ensconced in his parent's larder, and hoisted her into his arms. She gave a whoop of laughter and peppered kisses along his face and neck as he carried her into their bedroom for some celebratory 'alone time'.

**Sorry folks, there is no such outfit. I just made it up.


	4. The Big Day

_A/N: Here it is, the final chapter. Thank you all for your lovely comments and reviews, and I hope you enjoy the most detailed wedding scene I've ever written for these two._

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There was no other way to put it: Molly looked radiant. The shade of red suited her to a tee, and Mary wasted no time in telling her so as she fussed with the bouquet. As promised, a sprig of Mistletoe was prominently featured amidst the bunch of red roses, the white berries echoed in the white polka-dots adorning the short green veil that just covered Molly's eyes. The veil was attached to a simple, dark green hat - another vintage find on the same website where they'd located the dress.

Beneath the flaring red skirt Molly wore the garter Mrs. Hudson had given her as her "something old and something blue" combo; on her feet were Mary's borrowed red shoes that matched the shade of the dress so perfectly, and on Molly's cheeks were...tears? "Molly, luv, what's wrong?" Mary asked, rushing to her side and laying her hand on her friend's wrist. "Please tell me those are happy tears!"

"They are," Molly managed, letting Mary dab at her cheeks with a hanky hastily pulled from her jacket sleeve. "I'm just...I can't believe this day is finally h-here, and I'm so thankful that you're here to share it with us!" She hiccuped a bit as fresh tears welled from her eyes. "I can't imagine marrying Sherlock without you as my Matron of Honour."

Mary swallowed down a brief sob of her own. She wasn't one to cry, at least not very often, but Molly's sincere and heartfelt words did more than touch her; they awoke an answering and equally heartfelt surge of emotion. "I promise you, I'd have been at your wedding to Sherlock even if I had to haunt you to do so!"

She and Molly shared a hug, after which Mary gave a small laugh. "Goodness, we've got maudlin all of a sudden! This is supposed to be your wedding day, Molly Hooper-soon-to-be-Holmes!" She dabbed at her eyes with the hanky, then did the same for Molly. "Now let's go fix our makeup, it's almost time for you to make your debut, and I can't wait to see Sherlock's face when he sees you walking down the aisle!"

"You could see my face now if you'd just open the door and let me in!"

Molly gasped, and Mary raced to the door to keep Sherlock from just barging in. She could hear Sherlock's father remonstrating loudly with him, and peals of laughter from Rosie in the background. "No!" Mary said firmly as she slipped through the partially opened door, shutting it behind her. "Molly doesn't want you to see her in her dress before the ceremony, and that's final! It's tradition!"

"It's ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped. "And completely unnecessary. A useless superstition, just like-"

"Just like getting her the 'something new' she wanted?" Mary asked, one eyebrow raised. "Which happened to be Mistletoe? Which you and John had to go foraging for in the forest?"

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said sulkily. "It's tradition. But I just wanted to see her, to reassure her that I haven't changed my mind."

"No," Mary contradicted him crisply. "You wanted to reassure yourself that _she _hadn't changed _her _mind. Which she hasn't. And won't."

Sherlock scowled, Rosie giggled, and his father looked at him with an irritatingly understanding expression on his face that told him there was no point in trying to prevaricate. "Fine," he said after a moment, visibly deflating. "I don't think she'd _actually _climb out a window to escape being chained to me for the rest of her life, but there's always the possibility that she's regained her sanity and realized what a mistake she's making."

"I'm not making a mistake, Sherlock, now get back to the chapel so we can get this show on the road!" Molly's muffled voice called through the heavy wooden door.

"Excellent advice," his father said, eyes crinkling with happiness. He clapped his son on the shoulder. "It's your wedding day, my boy, time to take your place so we can take ours." He preened a bit. "Been a while since I've walked such a lovely woman down the aisle." His eyes took on a nostalgic tint. "Your mother made such a beautiful bride, and of course we didn't actually walk down an aisle since we were married at the registrar, but still…"

"Yes, yes, of course, I'm sure it was nearly half as wonderful as you remember it to be," Sherlock grumbled, but good-naturedly. He suffered through a quick hug before his father exchanged a glance with Mary and mumbled something about needing to stop at the loo before taking up his stand-in 'father of the bride' duties.

"So, Mrs. Watson," Sherlock said, studying Mary's face intently as the door closed behind them, "what is it you wanted to say to me that required privacy from everyone but Rosie?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Ah, Sherlock, you know me so well." She took a deep breath. "This is your day, yours and Molly's, but I thought I'd be, well, a bit selfish for a moment, and thank you."

He cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. "Thank me? For what?"

"For being the reason I'm here at all," she said, laying her hand on his chest, just above his heart. "This is all thanks to you," she said, tears glittering in her eyes. "I wouldn't be here, little Scotty wouldn't be safely at nursery right now - wouldn't even exist! - if you hadn't…"

He laid his hand over hers, clasping it gently, eyes crinkling as he smiled down at her. "Yes, well," he said, clearing his throat. "That's enough soppiness for one day, Mrs. Watson, don't you think?" He glanced over her shoulder, his smile widening. "I do believe your sprog is attempting to eat some of the rose petals, might want to, er, nip that in the bud, eh?" And he winked and she laughed and the moment passed, but joyfully.

"Right then!" Mary said, pushing Sherlock toward the same door his father had just exited through. "As Molly said, time to get this show on the road!

**oOo**

"Stop fidgeting," John said out of the side of his mouth.

"I'm not fidgeting," Sherlock shot back in the same manner. "I'm adjusting my cuffs and boutonniere and this blasted tie and-"

"You're _fidgeting_," John corrected him, still _sotto voce_. "Stop. It'll be fine. No need to be nervous…"

"I'm not nervous!" Sherlock said, probably rather more loudly than he intended. Certainly loud enough for the roomful of guests to hear, as well as the minister standing not four feet away. And his brother, seated in the front row next to his mother. Behind them were Greg Lestrade and his date, whose name Sherlock hadn't bothered to memorize since she was clearly just a temporary fixture in his friend's life, and Mrs. Hudson and her latest swain. Mrs. Turner twittered a nervous giggle from her seat directly behind them, there was the sound of people shifting in their seats, and then a door at the back of the chapel opened and the time for nerves - not that he'd ever had any - was definitely over.

Some soft, generic classical music started playing, signalling the guests to turn to the back to the small stone chapel in which the ceremony was taking place. The venue had been selected mostly for convenience's sake; it was his parents' parish, their minister was presiding over the ceremony, and the wedding breakfast would be at the nearby inn. Then he and Molly would be off on their much anticipated sex holiday, hopefully not _too _disrupted by morning sickness.

He smiled fondly as Rosie appeared, her small basket of white rose petals clutched in both chubby little hands. She scanned the rows of guests somewhat anxiously, but her expression cleared as she spotted her father and godfather at the end of the aisle.

Mary appeared shortly after her daughter, face alight with suppressed laughter as her daughter remembered what she was supposed to be doing and reached into her basket.

"Oh, isn't she just adorable!" Mrs. Turner gushed as Rosie toddled down the aisle in her green and red plaid taffeta dress, haphazardly flinging white rose petals in every direction except where they were meant to land - including directly into her father's face as she reached the nave of the church. The church rang with laughter, loudest of all from the groom-to-be.

Nope, no time for nerves, not after that little ice-breaker of a moment. Mary stood opposite John and Sherlock, and Rosie was coaxed into sitting on his mother's lap as the small choir broke into an a capella version of _Ave Maria_. That one idiot baritone was still slightly flat, but otherwise it was an acceptable version, even if not as Christmassy as, say, his personal choice, which had been a violin soloist playing _The Holly and th_-

All thoughts fled from his mind as the most beautiful vision in red Sherlock had ever seen appeared at the back of the church. Molly's dress was perfect; her hair, coiled up beneath the vintage green hat was perfect; her face was perfect, her tiny green veil was perfect, her bouquet was...adequate...but Molly's hands were perfect as they clutched the small bundle of flowers. And her feet, absolutely adorable in those borrowed red shoes!

There was the sound of someone sniffling. It wasn't until John discreetly nudged his arm and even more discreetly passed him a handkerchief that he realized it was himself doing the sniffling.

He took the handkerchief, stuffing it into his jacket pocket, unwilling to remove his watering eyes from his glowing, beautiful, _radiant _bride-to-be.

As she reached his side he saw the tell-tale sign of tears on her own cheeks, and knew that sentiment held them both firmly in its tenacious grasp.

And he couldn't have cared less.

"Dearly beloved," he heard the minister say, and that was all he remembered of the ceremony outside of the expression of pure love in Molly's eyes. And how her fingers (or was it his own?) trembled as they exchanged rings. And how wonderful it felt to kiss her as they were proclaimed husband and wife.

And, of course, how Rosie Watson had stolen the show by standing on his mother's lap and loudly proclaiming, "I told you you'd wike being mawwied, Aunt Mowwy!"

The sound of happy laughter followed them down the aisle as they walked, hand in hand, to the rear of the church to await their congratulatory friends and family.

**oOo**

Molly was in a an absolute daze. Was this real, was she actually married to Sherlock Holmes? She looked down at the simple gold band on her finger, then up into her husband's (_husband!_) eyes. "We did it," she said, knowing how breathless she sounded.

Sherlock's smile lit up his entire face. "We did it," he agreed, speaking in the low rumble that he _knew_ did things to her. He took her free hand in his, running his fingers over hers. When his thumb grazed her ring it stilled, and she looked down to see his matching ring winking up at her. She took a shuddering breath; he tipped her face up to his with his free hand, and lowered his lips to meet hers in a sweet kiss. Her second (_second!_) kiss from her husband. Sherlock Holmes.

She really, truly was Mrs. Molly Hooper-Holmes.

Smiling, joyful tears sparkling in the corners of her eyes, she wrapped her arm around his neck and kissed him until hoots and catcalls reminded them both that they weren't actually the only two people in the world.

**oOo**

"Well, we did it, we saw them safely married off. Never thought I'd see the day," John confided as he joined Mary at the head table.

The newlyweds were dancing, a slow waltz to what was, apparently, Sherlock's favourite Christmas carol, The Holly and the Ivy. He'd recorded the composition himself, and the two of them looked radiantly happy together.

When he said that last bit aloud, Mary smiled up at him. "Radiant seems to be the word of the day," she agreed warmly.

As he leaned down to drop a gentle kiss on her lips, she couldn't help but reflect on how fortunate they all were to be here. How much they'd all gone through just to reach this one, perfect moment in time.

A slight movement from her lap caught her attention, Rosie shifting in her sleep, rubbing her hand over her nose as sleeping children often seemed to do. As she held her darling daughter in her arms, snuggled so closely to her chest, eyes closed in gentle slumber, she couldn't help but feel blessed by all that life had granted her these past few years - yes, the downs as well as the ups. The old saying was surely true: What hadn't killed her - what hadn't killed them _all _\- had only made them stronger.

And Sherlock and Molly's marriage, she knew, would be the strongest of them all.


End file.
